


War Never Changes (But People Do)

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Character Study, Dialogue Heavy, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past major character injury, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27512881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Five years ago, after the two-decades-long war between the empires of Skaia and Alternia ended, the world began to rebuild. As the governments quarrel between one another, former members of opposing military forces begin to mingle. People move, seeking jobs in a war-torn world. Karkat Vantas, a former member of the Alternian forces, leaves behind the blighted ruins of his home kingdom. He seeks employment in the newly renamed Armistice City, the capital of Skaia. It is here that he finds unlikely companionship.After being severely injured in battle, Dave Strider, once a respected Brigadier General of Skaia, begins anew. Surrounded by a network of supportive friends and found family, he does his best to leave behind his violent past. Working as a journalist and writer, he ends up taking on a new assignment. He is to interview veterans and collect their stories, Alternian and Skaian alike.In the ideal world, grudges can be forgotten and mistakes of the past can be amended. No world, however, is utopia.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Q: "why do you post new fics when you've got 4002239320923 in progress?"  
> A: i'm a fucking idiot. next question.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Into each life some rain must fall,  
> But too much is falling in mine.  
> Into each heart some tears must fall,  
> But some day the sun will shine.”  
> — Ella Fitzgerald and The Ink Spots, "[Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJ9IaplRrm4&ab_channel=FunkyChez)"

**Wednesday, 30 June 1897** **  
** **Markhor Pub** **  
** **951 Old Vicarage Avenue, Midtown Armistice City, Skaia**

In spite of the overcast sky, the air is humid, heavy, and hot. It’s the type of heat that clings to the skin and generates sweat that never evaporates, instead seeping into every article of clothing. It’s a welcome relief from the aching chill of the cold, but it comes at a price. However, the weather doesn’t deter the bustling crowd. People shuffle up and down the street, sometimes stopping to speak to a vendor or a familiar face.

It is in the middle of this pulsing throng that Karkat Vantas, a renowned strategist and advisor to the military campaigns of the fallen empire of Alternia, sits. He rests at a wrought iron table, set outside of the famed Markhor Pub, and fans himself off with the rigid leather brim of his cap. Sweat streaks down his dark brown skin, gathering at already stained spots around the white collar of his button-down shirt. Burgundy eyes scan the horizon, studying the masses.

Thick fingers, the knuckles calloused and worn down, pluck a cigar from his breast pocket. He lights it, places it between his lips, and looks at the bent cardstock notice he’d received a few days ago.

> “From the Desk of Bipartisan Veteran’s Affairs,
> 
> “The Skaian Empire is collecting information and stories from combatants of both sides of the Twenty Year Imperial War. Our records indicate that you formerly served as part of the Alternian Imperial Infantry, Cluster Unit #612. We are reaching out to you! Please send a telegram back, informing us of whether or not you would like to partake in our experience collection campaign.”

He breathes out a plume of smoke. He looks at the second note.

> “From the Desk of Bipartisan Veteran’s Affairs,
> 
> “Thank you for your willingness to participate!
> 
> “You will be interviewed by Skaian Ambush Force veteran, Brigadier General David Eisenhower Strider, of the 12th brigade. He will meet you at Markhor Pub, 951 Old Vicarage Avenue, at noon, on the 30th of June. If you are uncertain of the identity of the individual approaching you, simply ask for identification. Brigadier General Strider will have an official identification card.”

Karkat checks his watch.

Dave is three minutes late.

He shakes his head. He’s never been a stickler for timeliness. He can stand to wait…

The metallic rattling of turning gears grabs Karkat’s attention. He looks up.

Across the table is another man. His pale face is covered in scars, the most notable of which vertically bisects his features. His hair is shocking white, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of tinted aviator goggles. He sits in a mechanical chair, the seat of which is luxuriously cushioned. Ornate dark wood panels support a pair of armrests, and his right hand rests on a control lever. His left hand seems decorative. The fingers are made of ivory, held in place by knuckles of brass, and bolted to the armrest.

When he speaks, Dave’s voice is surprisingly soft, almost rasping in quality, like that of a decades-old smoker. “My apologies,” he says. In a sign of respect, he removes his red, gold-accented caubeen, the front of which bears his military rank. Before he continues, he stores the hat in a bag, which hangs on the side of the chair’s right armrest. “You’re Private Vantas?”

“Brigadier General Strider?” Karkat inquires.

The pale man nods. From the pocket of his cardinal-hued uniform jacket, he takes a black leather booklet. The gears grind as he inches the chair closer to the table.

Karkat, meanwhile, looks at the provided documentation. Beneath a gold leaf covered identification card, which boasts a pasted-on daguerreotype of Dave’s likeness, is a bronze coin. The eight-toothed gear emblem at its center is emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Skaian Empire. The cardstock beneath the coin clarifies its purpose, “The Order of Sacrifice is awarded to Brigadier General Strider, for his valiant efforts at the Battle of Bordeaux. During this battle, Brigadier General Strider suffered multiple serious injuries, including the loss of one leg, one arm, and permanent paralysis. This award is given as a symbol of the Empire’s eternal gratitude for its recipient’s sacrifice.” Karkat closes the booklet. He hands it back over.

Satisfied with the identity of his newfound conversational partner, Karkat forces a smile onto his face. The last thing he wants to do is relive the worst two years of his life. The empire, however, promises that the stories are to be gathered in a massive anti-war pamphlet, so he’s more than happy to lend some aid to the cause. When he stands, he realizes that Strider is far shorter than him. This should have come as a natural realization; somehow, it wasn’t. He hesitates.

“You can ask about what happened,” says Strider, and a small smirk graces his face. He moves his right hand, and his chair smoothly rolls forward, revealing his lower body. The leg of his left pants leg is rolled up, tucked beneath where it ends, just a bit below his hip. “You want to know, don’t you?” he nudges Karkat in the side as he passes, heading for the door. When a civilian opens the portal for him, he offers a casual salute.

“Well…” Karkat tugs at his sweat-soaked collar. “I… I wouldn’t want to pry into your personal affairs, Brigadier General—”

“You can just call me Dave,” Strider interjects. He pulls up to an empty two-person table. An attendant moves aside the extra chair, and he takes some paper and a pen from his bag. He opens the pen by biting down on the cap, which he later spits into his right hand. He sets the molded plastic pen top aside. Perhaps as backup, he also sets up a small vocal recorder. The bell of the expensive new technological innovation is positioned at the exact center point between the two men. “So,” he urges, watching keenly as Karkat browses the drink menu, “Go ahead and ask.”

“How about I fucking don’t?” quips the former infantry private. “You can tell me, if you want to, but I’d rather not go nosing into places I have no right to be.”

Dave responds quickly, volunteering his story without hesitation, “Stepped on a landmine seven years ago. Shit went off, obviously. Fragments of meatloaf-fied leg rocketed up my ass and through my spine, while my arm went whipping off into the sky. Limbs are overrated, anyhow. Fuck limbs. Who needs those?”

“Fascinating,” Karkat lies.

“Yeah.” The interviewer readies his pen. Between his pauses, the static scraping of the recording device fills the air. “So, we’re supposed to start this off by talking about ourselves, as interviewers. I was an orphan. My parents abandoned me at a military dropoff, and I joined the guerilla attack forces when I was seven. I served for thirteen years before my injury. I was honorably discharged. My…” Dave pauses. He coughs; it’s an obvious nervous reaction. “My entire unit was wiped out by mines. I led the charge in, and I was the last fucker out. The only one out alive. Turns out we managed to clear a path to the main battlefield, though, so…”

“And you’re not at all pissed?” questions Karkat. His burgundy eyes mark him as a child of the defeated Alternian Empire. “You’re a respected former member of the military of your empire. And, yet, here you fucking are! Interviewing some scrappy bastard from the enemy’s side. It doesn’t piss you off at all? Doesn’t it just dig under your skin, like a parasite, and eat at you? My people took everything from you, and yet—”

Another interruption. Strider’s tone is nonchalant. “I’m still alive, ain’t I? And, to be honest, I didn’t really give a fuck about the war. I fought because I had to. I didn’t kill your soldiers because I was balls-to-the-wall about it. Plenty of people were. I just wasn’t ready to die.” He shrugs. He writes a few notes; his penmanship is crude and childish. When he notices his interviewee’s stares, he clarifies, “I’m one of those left-handed devils you hear about. I guess that means I got the evil blasted out of me, right?” He smirks.

“Sure.” Karkat sits back. He doesn’t know what to make of this data collector. None of the Skaian veterans he’s run into have been anything other than hostile towards him. He understands why; at night, he still hears the screams of the men and women he killed. He remembers the sickening, squelching resistance of a bayonet through flesh.

That was the past, though.

Right?

“Your rank,” Strider pushes ahead with the interview, “You never went any higher than private?”

“I wasn’t in the military long enough. I joined at the legal age of sixteen, and the war was over by my eighteenth birthday. Don’t mistake my short tenure as lack of experience, though, or so fucking help whatever is left of your soul.”

“I’d never dare to.” The statement is strangely sincere, especially coming from someone as seemingly casual as Dave. “Stupid asshole’s honor. What was your primary job?”

“Bomb tech.” As soon as he says the words, Karkat freezes.

Strider does, too. His brows furrow. He rubs his left shoulder. “Oh.” He chews on his lip. “Fuck. So, you…”

“I laid mines.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

The recorder drones on, filling the minutes with a warbling etching noise. After a while, it clicks. Dave reaches across the table. He replaces the cap on his pen and holds it in his mouth, using the end to hit buttons on the device. After he’s done, he closes the lid on the waxy cylindrical medium.

“I just wanted to clarify,” Strider eventually mumbles, his voice slightly strained, “I have nothing against you. Or any of your people. I just didn’t expect my first assignment to be one of the number-crunching dorks who blew half of my fleshy being into the ether, y’know?” he laughs, but it’s insincere and anxious. “Sorry. I’m mixing up the personal and the professional. Let’s backtrack. You laid mines for Cluster Unit number 612, right?”

“Correct.” Karkat rubs the back of his neck. He can no longer bring himself to look at Dave. “I usually went out and pulled the detonator pin. I didn’t really have enough of my shit together at that age to understand the inner mechanics of it.”

“Well, I can’t say I got a good enough look at the one that nearly capped my ass out of the living plane to know how it worked, either.” A thin smile punctuates the statement. Pen scratches against paper. Ink drips from the tip of the writing utensil and onto the wood of the table. It sinks into the porous surface, leaving behind a dark stain. Dave doesn’t notice. “How many stages of battle did you see?”

“Five. Belgrad, London, Alternia, Capetown, and Bordeaux. Before you ask, I wasn’t in Bordeaux when you were. Obviously.”

“Duh.” Strider smiles. The tension in his body dissipates. “Cool. I saw a lot more, but I guess I was in the shit longer than you were, so… Ignore that. Never mind. Where’s the rest of the six-twelve?”

“We all scattered after the war. I write to them, sometimes, but most of them went back to Alternia to rebuild. I stayed here.”

“Why?”

Karkat shrugs. He’s never really thought about his reasoning. “Fuck if I know. I found a job with a gun repair place in the city, and I guess I just don’t want to go back to the burnt-out, blighted capital of a fallen superpower.”

“Fair.” Strider checks his watch. “Look, I’ve got something else to get to today.” He rips a corner from his notes and writes an address out, then hands the scrap across the table. “I’ve got a report I’m doing for _Continental Informer_ , and my notes are… hm… They’re just absolutely fucked, dude. I need to get those together and submit the whole thing in two days, so let’s meet again after that, okay? Drop by my place.”

Though he studies the written words, Karkat can’t quite make out what they say. The ink is slightly smudged, and the handwriting is atrocious. He tries to hide his confusion, but it appears that he does a poor job.

“I live at the Skaian Veteran’s Assisted Home,” Strider supplies. He adjusts his goggles. “That big place, up near the main castle, just outside the inner fortifications. Ask around. You really can’t miss it. First level, room thirty-four. You go in the front gate, mosey around the roundabout and to the east, and I’m the first door after the lattice bridge. Drop by around 6:00 in the evening?”

“Sure.” Karkat takes a stick of graphite from his pocket and writes himself a note on the back of Dave’s. “To confirm, I’ll meet you at six, on Saturday, the third?”

“Fuck, yeah! That’s the shit!” Strider grins. He offers a two-finger salute, then departs.

As much as he’d never say it aloud, Karkat finds himself feeling lighter. There’s something therapeutic about being around Dave, and being able to vent about his past.

* * *

**Saturday, 3 July 1897** ****  
**Skaian Veteran’s Assisted Home** **  
** **104 Inner Rampart Ring, Uptown Armistice City, Skaia**

The grounds of the assisted living area are meticulously maintained. The natural alchemists of the court keep the foliage green year-round, and the small stone stream, which runs through the miniature village-within-itself, is clear and gentle. The faded grey cobblestones are a perfect setting for war-torn soldiers to relax on. Most of the residents are long gone, no longer mentally able to understand where they are or who they’ve become. Each is accompanied by an assistant, who dutifully tends to their needs.

According to the pasted-up vellum flyer, today is star-watching night. People are putting out blankets and cots, setting up places for people to calm themselves by looking to the skies. Dave, however, is nowhere to be seen.

Looking back down at his notes, Karkat follows the instructions he’d written out for himself. He approaches a plain, solid oak door. A fresh floral wreath, with flowers of the most vibrant red and the softest shade of lilac, have been woven into dried twigs. A note sticks out of the leafy adornment, “From your sister. Congratulations on the promotion!” The same small piece of paper has also been signed by what Karkat can only assume are staff and residents of nearby units.

He breathes in. Smooths out the wrinkles of his suit, wipes sweat from his brow. He knocks.

The door opens.

A man, remarkably similar to Dave, but with medium-brown skin and a head of tight curls, opens the door. He adjusts his own pair of tinted goggles, frowns, and eyes the newcomer over. He rubs a wrist under his nose, wide and flat, before speaking up. His voice is crisp and clear, “Punctual,” he says, “You’re Karkat?”

Karkat nods.

“I’m Dirk, Dave’s half-brother. Long story, don’t bother asking for that epic.” The man in the doorway waves his hand. “He’s in the bedroom. I’ll go and fetch him. Until then, don’t make too much of a mess.” He turns, marches to one of the two doors at the back of the space, and disappears behind it.

Karkat, meanwhile, takes a seat at the polished two-person dining table. A freshly arranged basket of fruits graces the center, and two silver plates have been set out. Matching goblets are ready, as is the voice recorder.

The table is set in the middle of the room. To its northeast is a kitchen, while the rest of the room is a large living space. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelf to the northwest is fully stocked, and an executive style desk is overflowing with discarded notes and crumpled pages. Hanging on the wall, just beside the front door, is a large portrait of Dave. He’s slightly younger, dressed in military garb, and posed for what seems to be an official portrait. His left hand clutches a sword, while his right leans casually against the butt of a musket. “1890” is scribbled in the corner.

The door opens.

Dave exits. His chair is plainer, missing the wooden side panels and gaudy adornments. From just above the elbow, his left shirt sleeve is empty. In civilian clothing—a plain linen shirt, slacks, and a battered brown vest—he looks more approachable. “You didn’t bail!” he laughs. “Good sign, I guess.”

Karkat doesn’t know how to respond to this.

Graciously, Dave continues, “I’ll let Dirk go outside and get my stargazing spot ready. You’re welcome to join me, if you wish.” After taking some snacks and a bottle of cider from the pantry, Dave pulls up to the table. He pours two glasses of refreshments and sets the box of assorted cookies in the center of the table. “It’ll only be a few hours until then.”

“If I’m still around, I’m not entirely opposed,” Karkat shrugs.

“Sounds nice.” Dave takes four cookies for himself, downs some cider, and begins writing. The recorder starts running.

The front door opens, then closes; Dirk is gone.

“How do you afford a place like this?” Karkat blurts.

“I don’t. I live on the goodwill of the royal court. This whole place is a charity case. We’re here to make the nobles look good, and I don’t really mind, since I’d otherwise be on the streets.”

“Hm.” Alternia had never even bothered to offer Karkat severance pay when the war ended. Then again, his side lost… “And you have a sister?”

“The wreath?” Dave doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. My parents apparently went on to fuck like rabbits. They just specifically didn’t want me. The prestige of marrying out, to a higher level of society, I guess. They weren’t wrong. My title has weight, but my wages are about equal to a few loaves of bread a week.” He raises his goggles, revealing hazel eyes. He blinks. “We’re here to talk about you, though. I get the feeling that you’re like me. You didn’t much enjoy killing people.”

“Hated it,” Karkat answers. “I hated every minute of it. I joined because I had nowhere else to go. My apprenticeship at the print shop was cancelled. Alternia had just gutted the fuck out of the press, throttling any news that made it seem like we were losing. It didn’t help much. We still lost.”

“That scar on your jaw,” Dave points out, gesturing to the divot near Karkat’s left ear, “Bullet wound?”

“Shrapnel. Some jackass near me set a mine off while arming it. He died, I got a piece of metal embedded in my face.” Karkat waits patiently as Dave writes out the responses. His eyes keep darting from the portrait to the man in front of him, comparing the scars and the wounds. “You said you were recruited when you were seven,” he leads.

Dave responds without hesitation, “I did. I didn’t know what else to do. Considering how shitty the situation looked back then, seeing as y’all attacked us, they needed anyone they could find. I worked my way up. I’d just hit Brigadier General when I stepped on that mine. So, hey, you win a little and you lose, say, half of your limbs. Weird how shit happens, right?”

“Yeah.” Karkat looks at his hands. Theoretically, had he enlisted earlier, he could have been the one responsible. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Dave taps the end of his pen against the table. It forms a steady beat, a waltz. “You said you were going to work for a printmaker?”

“My father was an engraver. He and my mother were both killed in an ambush when I was twelve.” Karkat frowns. He’s never told anyone this information, not even his closest friends. Yet, somehow, being able to say it is cathartic. “He was fairly famous in the Alternian printmaking realm. He specialized in maps and schematics. I’d hoped to follow in his footsteps.”

“You’ve still got two hands, so I don’t see why you can’t,” Dave points out. “I’d always loved dabbling in art. I still do some, but I’m not nearly as decent at it, now.” He drops a whole cookie into his mouth. Only after he’s finished eating it does he continue, asking, “Did you do any sketches in the trenches? I’d love to see them and make copies. My friend, Jake, does reproductions of art for publication. People eat up the visual shit. You can yell in their ear all day about how shitty war is, but they’ll really move if they can actually see it.”

“True. I’ll bring some of my sketches next time we meet.”

“I could be an asshole and say that this is our last meeting, but I don’t have enough material at the moment.” A sly smirk. A wink. “I forgot to ask if you’d like something to eat. I convinced Dirk to prepare some extra lamb. They treat us to the premium shit on the weekends.”

“I ate before I came, thank you.”

“Then I’ll pack it up and send it with you when you leave.”

“I don’t need it,” insists Karkat.

“Of course you don’t. I’ll send some along, anyhow,” Dave gestures in the direction of the fridge. “Take some! I’ve got a fair amount of leftovers. Don’t disappoint me, now, Private Vantas.”

The humor of the tongue-in-cheek comment makes Karkat smirk; the reminder of his old occupation makes him cringe. “Fine,” he says, no less reluctant than before, “I’ll take some.”

The few hours until sunset pass quickly. The two men swap stories, though none of them are particularly heavy. They joke around and laugh, acting like old friends. A casual observer would never guess that they had once been on opposite sides of a battlefield.

Around 8:00 PM, Dave turns off the recorder, places the cylinder of audio data in a box, and sets both this and his notes aside. He blows out the nearby candle, allowing the room to bathe in the soft, flickering glow of oil-powered lighting. “It’s gotten late,” he says, “I’ve gotten a nice amount of material to work with. If you’d like to return home, you’re welcome to, or you can join me for a while outside. The stargazing lasts until midnight, though most of the kind folk around here go to bed before then.”

The front door’s lock springs open, and Dirk enters. He briefly acknowledges Karkat, though he does so with little more than a curt nod. He disappears into Dave’s room. After a few minutes, he re-emerges, now holding a satin-front red vest. The lapels are embellished with golden thread. He tosses it to Dave, who changes quickly. What he had been wearing is discarded, left hanging on a coat rack by the door.

“I should probably be heading home,” Karkat thinks aloud, “But, it’s not as if I have much to do. I’d just be going home to sleep and prepare for work at the shop tomorrow. An hour or so of fucking around before I return shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

Dirk offers a lilting huff. Somehow, it seems as if he’s satisfied with the answer. His expression remains neutral.

Dave, meanwhile, flashes the briefest of grins. It’s bright, like the fleeting flash of a shooting star. He beckons for Karkat to follow.

The trio walk out, onto the cobblestone path. The gently curving walkway leads them to the large entry courtyard. A placard bears Dave’s name and distinguishes his prepared area. A pair of doubled-up towels are on the ground, laid carefully beside a cushioned lounge chair. After parking himself beside the reclined seat, Dave waits.

With speed and ease that comes only from practice, Dirk lifts the other man. One arm supports his leg, while the other wraps around his back, under his arms. After lowering Dave down, he speaks, “I don’t know if it’s true, but there’s a rumor making the rounds. The castle is supposedly celebrating the birth of a new heir to Duke Rouge’s line. If you stay for a bit, you may be treated to some of Skaia’s famed fireworks.”

Karkat frowns. He averts his eyes from Dave, allowing the man to make himself comfortable without the prying gaze of a curious, low-ranking former enemy soldier. “Were you speaking to me?”

Dirk nods.

Dave shrugs. “Don’t worry yourself into an apoplexy. Dirk’s a little odd. It’s fine.”

“I suppose you recognize that this is akin to the whale calling the beluga oil?” Karkat quips.

For the first time, Dirk breaks his stoic composure. A snort of laughter escapes him.

Dave feigns offense. “How dare you!” he gasps, clutching at his chest.

A shimmering golden glow spreads across the sky. Tendrils of magical fire spread from the center, spiralling gracefully outward. The lights continue, dancing across the starry horizon. Many of the residents stare at this, gripped by childlike wonder.

“Dirk, whoever your source was, you might want to keep an ear out for them,” Dave comments. He looks, then, to Karkat. He presses his hand against the surface of his seat and pulls himself up a bit. His right leg drags across the fabric; the foot trembles. When the limb stills, the foot falls, so that the toes and knee both turn inward. “Have you seen fireworks before? We were always told they were a Skaian specialty.”

“Alternia has fireworks, too,” Karkat shakes his head. He puts his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Ours are traditional, though. We didn’t trust magic. I don’t think we do, now, either. I hate the fireworks back home. They remind me of gunfire.”

“I can imagine.” Dave wrinkles his nose. He turns his gaze upward, just in time to see a scintillating orb of bright red. It flits, like a bird, before hovering in place and slowly dissipating.

“You know, they make considerably more advanced prosthetics now than they had in production during the war.” The comment is an off-handed remark, spoken as Karkat’s eyes briefly pass over the place where Dave’s left arm should be. “Many of them are purely mechanical, too, if you’re not fond of magical fuckery. Personally, I wouldn’t be.”

“I’m aware,” Dave begins. “I have one. I use it from time to time, but it’s heavy and cumbersome. Fuck that shit.”

“It’s a reminder of past lessons,” Dirk mumbles.

Dave nods. “Yeah. That, too.”

“Reasonable.” Karkat checks his watch. He rises from his spot on the ground and offers his hand to Dave. “It’s a bit late, now, and I have to report in for work at 6:00 in the fucking morning. So, for now, I guess this is goodbye.”

For a second, Dave hesitates. A frown tugs at the edges of his lips. “Oh. Yeah. Forgot about that.” He pushes himself into a sitting position and balances against the remnant of his left arm. “I’ll send you a message later. I need to compile what I have so far. Submit some of the recordings. That’ll take a bit. I’ve also got a few other people on my list for interviews.” He takes Karkat’s hand into a surprisingly firm grip. “Until we see each other again, Private Vantas.”

“Yes,” Karkat says, his words almost catching in his throat, “Until then.” As he withdraws, he takes a last look at the sight of Dave’s eyes. Rippling cannonades of glowing color, reflected against sharp, observant hazel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i don't know what i'm fucking doing! wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!


	2. This is a Changing World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The world was young  
> So many, many years ago,  
> The passage of time must show.”  
> — Noël Coward, “[This is a Changing World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4CBa3suiI84&ab_channel=TonnyLNielsen)”

**Friday, 16 July 1897** **  
** **Munitions Meadows Park** **  
** **Midtown Armistice City, Skaia**

The year drags on. The days grow hotter; the humidity, more stifling. Where people once begged for the warmth to relieve them of the stinging cold, they now clamor for winter. Today, thankfully, the weather breaks. A steady downpour brings low humidity and pleasant temperatures. Thermometers hover around seventy-odd degrees. People flood the streets.

The earth beneath Karkat’s feet is slightly springy. Mud coats his boots, and the bitter smell of rusting iron fills the air. On the streets, he’s heard that Munitions Meadows was once a weapons manufacturing factory. At some point during the war, a massive bomb hit. The factory was obliterated; the occupants were all killed in an instant. After bulldozing the structure, the empire dedicated both it and the surrounding area as a memorial to the sacrifices of war. To most, it’s a touching story. To Karkat, it’s just another grim reminder of the impermanence of life.

He sits on the remains of a stone retaining wall. He thinks.

Certainly, none of the people who supposedly worked here would have known that their deaths were imminent. They would have hugged their loved ones and departed for the day, smiling and laughing as civilians do. “Farewell, I will see you again tonight,” was most likely a phrase spoken by some of them. And, then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

There’s a low rumble. A biplane glides over the city. “The dawning age of peace has begun!” declares the banner, which trails from the aircraft’s tail. Passerby point at it and smile. They speak fondly of the war, of how the heroic actions of a relative few have improved the lives of many. They laugh.

Karkat covers his ears. He ducks.

He remembers standing in a trench. The blood of his fallen friends stains his skin. The pelting rain doesn’t wash the copious amount of mud from his body. In fact, it seems to only make the dirt and grime heavier. His rifle is jammed, the barrel having been filled with debris and dust. He’s long since lost his bayonet. A mortar round slams into the ground, just yards away from him. His ears ring. The shockwave rattles his body, irreverently shaking the contents like a cheap soda.

“Soldier,” a calming voice pulls Karkat from the clawing nightmares of his past. Looking up, he sees Strider. A copper overhang on the back of his chair protects him from the rain; the edges are beginning to oxidize. He’s more subdued today. His attire is casual. “What’re you doing out here?”

Karkat blinks. He rubs at his eyes. Sure enough, what he sees isn’t an illusion. A sigh of relief precedes his response. “What are _you_ doing out here, Strider?” he counters.

“Am I not allowed to take a walk in the park? Do my injuries somehow invalidate my right to do vaguely normal shit?” The response is not angry. In fact, the sing-song, glib tone of it makes it seem more like a friendly jab.

Karkat rolls his eyes. He responds in turn, “You’re a pilgarlic bastard, aren’t you? Is that what you were actually doing, or are you simply beating around the metaphorical bush?”

Dave shrugs. “Maybe both.” He takes off his goggles and uses the white pocket square from his vest to polish the lenses. “I come out to the park when I can. If it’s too hot, I get headaches. If it’s too cold, shit starts hurting. I like it here. It’s a nice place to forget about things.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“Implying that I’m incapable of taking care of myself?” quips Strider. A coy smirk pulls at his features. “No, I’m by myself. Dirk does enough work.”

“Hm.” A beat.

The wind blows. The rain shifts directions, splashing onto Dave’s clothes.

Karkat opens the flask on his hip and drinks, downing the water within. “Are the rumors about the park true?”

“Rumors?” Strider looks puzzled. He rubs his chin, upon which silver stubble is beginning to grow. “This park used to be a factory. They made guns, ammunition, and scrap metal helmets. In ‘83, the place got hit bad by the Alternian Airforce. Place was blitzed to hell. I was thirteen.” He takes out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. Only after lighting it and taking a deep drag does he continue, “I’d just gotten back from a mission in Abuja. Some broken bones, stitches, y’know, the usual?” A small smirk, its edges tinged with regret. “I was part of the cleanup crew. Nasty shit.”

“Sorry.”

“You didn’t do it, did you?” A pause. Realization spreads across Strider’s face. He plucks another cigarette from his pocket and offers it out, holding it between his index and middle fingers. “Should’ve offered you a smoke.”

“I prefer cigars, but thank you.” Karkat looks away. “You’re so fucking casual about everything, like nothing has happened,” he growls. “How? How do you willingly spend time with me, someone whose nation so zealously tried to wipe your home—your _people_ , even—off the map? You don’t feel any sort of anger?”

A thoughtful hum. Strider’s brow furrow. He replaces his goggles. “A nation ain’t completely uniform. I’m sure you didn’t personally set out, thinking to specifically maim and harm people. Am I angry? To be honest, yeah. And I think that’s pretty damn natural. But I’m not angry _at you_ . I’m angry at _them_ ,” he gestures in the direction of the castle. The tallest of its towers peek over the thick, green foliage of the trees. When he continues, his voice is softer. It’s saccharine, almost sickeningly so. “Are you? When you look at me, you feel pissed?”

“I’m not sure I should tell that to someone without some sort of psychological degree,” Karkat says. It’s a half-hearted attempt at a joke. A diversion.

Strider doesn’t fall for it. “Answer the question, Private.” He pushes against the armrest of his chair, straightening his back. There’s a defined aura of authority about him. A sense of power.

“I guess so.” A weak admission. “I mean… I had a family. I had a brother, and my parents were… They were amazing. And, then, _you_ ,” he finds himself spitting out the word, as if it’s a poison, “ _Your people_ came charging into my village. It was a slaughter. A fucking massacre. You cut down people as they ran. My aunt. My uncle. Doctors. Both of them were doctors. They never did a single fucking thing to you people, and you shot them, like animals.” Shaking fingers curl around the rough fabric of grey slacks. Karkat closes his eyes, fighting back the rising lump in his throat. Even now, after everything he’s seen, he’s surprised that he still has any tears left to shed.

And Strider, his expression akin to that of a patient religious idol statue, only nods. He gestures for Karkat to continue. He takes another drag from his cigarette, turns his head, and blows the smoke to the side.

“I know it wasn’t you. I mean, in my mind, I can easily, logically recognize it wasn’t you. But it’s just… It’s there. It’s what happened.” A pause. Another memory surfaces. “But, there was a younger soldier. He was injured. From your side. I never saw his face. He had on one of those unsettling gas masks.” Karkat rubs at his face, clearing away the few tears that had fallen. “He showed me a way out of the village. I was the only one left, but I guess… Your people destroyed my life, but one of you also saved my miserable life. I suppose that’s a trade.”

“Yeah.” Strider’s brows furrow. His breath catches in his throat, and his cigarette falls to the ground as he grabs the abrupt end of his left arm. He grits his teeth. He keeps speaking, his voice only slightly strained, “War sucks. All of it sucks. This shit? Absolutely fucked. I go back home, and I’m surrounded by men so totally broken by their experiences that they’ve detached from reality. I get it.”

“Do you?” Karkat’s response is swift, but his anger begins to fade. He shakes his head, waves his hand. “I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“‘Sir’?” Strider scoffs. “Look, nobody can turn back time and undo this. Things happen. I don’t know if they have a reason. I don’t know if there’s some sort of cosmic whoever up there, in the sky, watching our pain, but does it matter? You’re here. You exist. I exist. What else can we do?” His right hand falls, away from his left arm, and he glances at the smoldering remnants of his half-finished cigarette.

Karkat looks, too.

A sigh. “How’s the gun shop doing?”

The topic shift is sudden. Karkat blinks. “Uh…” he hesitates, taking a moment to regain his footing in the conversation, “It’s doing well enough, I suppose. We’re not in a dire financial strait, but we’re not exactly rich. How’s your report going?”

“Better than your business, it seems.” Strider grins. “I need some more information soon. If you don’t mind meeting again, we can go over some more shit. Nail down the details.”

“And of your other interviews?”

“Fine enough. None of the rest of them are too interesting. A few of them are those die-hard militant sort. I’ve got one guy, real quiet, but very nice. I don’t make much effort to hang out with them, though.”

“Oh?” Karkat raises a brow. “So, you’re implying that I’m special?”

“Sure,” admits Strider, free of any sort of qualms, “You’re nice enough. Not many people I know and work with wear their heart on their sleeve like you to. It’s refreshing, see? I like being around someone I can just sort of… I don’t know. We seem to share a similar set of experiences and values. Most of my friends are pretty busy. You don’t seem to be. Lots of little shit. Not much to really be concerned about. I’m not going to stalk you.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. He can’t help but smile at Strider’s ramblings. “Fine. When would you like to meet?”

“Tuesday? We can meet at Geode. Noon.”

After jotting down the meeting time and place in his pocket notebook, Karkat nods. “Sounds fine. We’ll meet then and there.”

* * *

**Monday, 19 July 1897** ****  
**Geode Library, Third Municipal Branch Location** **  
** **Floor 3, 102 Flare Circle, Midtown Armistice City, Skaia**

Karkat stumbles into the lobby. He’s one and a half hours late. Perhaps he should have asked for clarification about _which_ Geode location he was supposed to meet at. Then again, what sort of halfway sensible city would have more than one library location that’s named the same thing? He approaches the front desk, asks for Dave, and is immediately led to a long walnut-wood table.

The man is busy flipping through a book, _The Adventures of Aquarius Ampora_. The leather spine is wrinkled and worn. Clearly, this is a popular story. When he notices Karkat, he sets the tome aside. He smiles. “Someone didn’t know that there’s five branches of the Geode Library, huh?”

“No,” Karkat grunts, “I fucking didn’t. What sort of hellish city planner decided to give five _different_ venues the exact same name? Moreover, what sort of braindead population decides to say _only_ the common name of the buildings, not the identifying number?”

As he sits, Karkat takes out a now-dripping bag of street food. He hastily spreads multiple handfuls of paper towels over the table before setting the meal down. “I got some things from the French patisserie cart on the way. They’ve all turned to fetid, lukewarm mush by now, though.” As if on cue, the bag begins to lean. A squishing noise precedes the unpleasant sight of the side popping open. Chocolate oozes from the hole, like puss from a zit.

Dave doesn’t seem to mind. He still grabs a handful of napkins and takes out a soggy pastry. "So," he begins, starting up the recorder. His fingers leave sugary streaks across the device's interface. "Tell me about your village."

"My village?" Karkat is taken aback by the inquiry. His brows furrow. "Oh. Uh… Well, it was my home. It was directly north of Alternia, but it was a ways out. A twelve day's journey by motorcar, but nobody owned one. Twenty-some days by horse and carriage. Life was simple there. It was easy."

"I'd think the opposite would be true." Strider tilts his head to the side. "Where I grew up," he sighs. He grabs onto the armrest of his chair and shifts his position. "I grew up in Halocrest. A tiny little town, everyone knew everyone. Everyone knew my father beat me senseless. Nobody did shit. We eked out a living by farming and mining. Your small village was different?"

"It was a bit like that." Karkat frowns. He rubs his fingertip atop the table, drawing absentminded circles against the wax-polished surface. "Quiet. We were an artist village. Many of the court and nobility favored artisans lived there. Our food was mostly brought from the next village over, a few hours away by horseback. Bounty Hill."

A nod. Dave writes this down. In his notes, he's drawn a crude map of locations. Lines connect each, with the travel time written next to them. "Did you have any other family there? You mentioned your parents and your aunt and uncle."

"No, that was it. The rest mostly lived elsewhere. As an artist, my father wasn't exactly the pride of our family."

"You have the same problem there, too?" Strider smirks. "My father hated that I wanted to be a painter. He'd probably be thrilled to know that my career path has been forcibly derailed." By now, most of the pastry has been eaten.

For a moment, Karkat considers taking the other confection. Then again, he doesn't want to get melted chocolate all over himself. He shakes his head.

"When was your village attacked?"

It takes Karkat a moment to remember. "It was just after my twelfth birthday, so… '87?"

Strider freezes. His brows pinch together. "Are you certain?"

"I'm quite certain of the day my entire life was blitzed into oblivion."

"Ah." A short stretch of silence. Strider scribbles something in the margins of his notebook, then abruptly pushes ahead with the interview. "Did the attack have anything to do with your enlistment?"

"No." Karkat shrugs. He picks at some loose threads on his vest. “I joined on a whim. My friends joined, so I followed. It wasn't that deep.”

“And did you have the same assignment throughout your career?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You didn’t like it?” Strider looks up. A singular thick, pale brow is arched.

“Scurrying about and arming mines is both extremely dangerous and incredibly dull. It’s a contradictory, almost oxymoronic statement, but there’s just not much thought behind pulling the pin and running the other way. It felt cowardly. I never actually faced an enemy. I held a gun, but I only killed with my own hands on a few occasions.” A pause. “That’s not entirely bad, though.”

“Killing people isn’t all it’s chalked up as.” Strider eyes the recording device. “It’s not fun. If one of my soldiers started telling me they thought it was, I’d send them home. That’s when you’re starting to lose your sense of shit. When right and wrong boils down to getting your rocks knocked at the sight of blood, you’re fucked.” He reaches over, presses a button, and opens the cover over the cylinder. As he pockets it, he says, “I only had one extra roll. I’ve ordered a few more, but they won’t be here for a few days. So, that’s the end for us today.”

“Oh.” There’s a pang of disappointment in Karkat’s heart. It feels like someone has shoved him. It’s an unpleasant, nagging moment of uncertainty, followed by a simmering sense of confusion. “Well, it’s been nice seeing you again.”

“Same to you. And thank you for the pastry. I’d offer to shake your hand, but you probably don’t want sticky croissant residue all over your sharp attire.” Strider lifts his goggles just long enough to show a wink. After replacing them, he dons his beaten-up black porkpie. “I’ll be traveling for the next few days, too, so I’ll see you later. When I have another opportunity to continue our chats, I’ll send you a message.”

“Of course.” Karkat’s heart sinks even lower, until it seems to start dissolving in his stomach. “Safe travels, Strider.”

A two-finger salute and a wave precede Dave’s swift departure.


End file.
